About two hundred paces from the chaotic battlefield of slaughter, the raging wind and snow likewise obscured the view of another force.
Harald, tightly surrounded by a squad of elite royal guards, was riding northward through the blizzard.
His face was livid, frost crusted his beard and brows, and exhaustion filled his eyes.
He was not fleeing blindly. Along the way, he ordered tents and supplies that could not be taken—or had been deliberately left behind—to be set ablaze, attempting to use flames and thick smoke to create obstacles amid the blizzard and delay any pursuing troops.
"What the hell is going on?!"
His original plan had been to begin an orderly withdrawal at dawn, setting fire to part of the camp to block the main routes. But this sudden, exceptionally violent blizzard had shown him another possibility—using the heavens to bite back.
He had hastily altered his deployment. The main force would feign a retreat from camp, luring the victory-hungry Karl into sending troops in pursuit. Then, taking advantage of how the blizzard disrupted visibility and formations, he would ambush them with the true elites drawn from every corps and deal the rashly advancing Carnford Army a crushing head-on blow.
In that sort of chaotic close-quarters melee, the firearm formations and tight-rank advantage relied upon by the Carnford People would be greatly diminished, while the ferocity of his Sauron warriors could be brought fully into play. If it succeeded, he would not only maul the pursuers and salvage his honor, but also organize the real retreat at leisure.
Yet before the ambushing troops had fully taken position, before the agreed signal could even be given, dense gunfire and earth-shaking battle cries suddenly erupted from ahead of the right flank!
Twisted and magnified by the blizzard, the sounds seemed immense,